Four Kisses Michael Took From Lincoln
by Clair de Lune - ITML
Summary: He can see innocence in Michael’s eyes, and he loathes being the one who has to rip that away from him. Slash, Michael/Lincon


**FOUR KISSES MICHAEL ****TOOK FROM LINCOLN (AND ONE LINCOLN GAVE HIM)**

**Pairing:** Michael/Lincoln  
**Warning:** Incest  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.  
**Notes: **Thanks to happywriter06 for the beta.

**Innocent**

They're in the uninspired Pattersons' living room, and Michael leans across the coffee table and plants a kiss on Lincoln's mouth. It's more of a peck, actually: a light touch of dry lips, a brush of air, a hint of eyelashes on his cheek, and it's over. At first, Lincoln is at loss; he doesn't have the slightest idea on how he should react so for a few seconds, he doesn't move. Then he gathers his thoughts, blinks and slowly backs away. He feels like running his tongue over his lips – he's not really sure whether he wants to keep or chase away the tingling of the kiss. He's very careful not to do anything. To not let Michael think that this is in anyway acceptable.

"You can't kiss me like that, Michael," he says, his voice soft and hushed.

"But I love you."

"I love you too, but you still can't kiss me like that."

"Mom used to do it," his brother protests stubbornly, and Lincoln hates him, just a little bit, for bringing their mother into the discussion.

"You were a little kid. You're way too old to be kissed like that, except, you know..." He tries to convey a sense of cheerfulness in his voice, but Michael's sad expression tells him that he's failing. "... by a girlfriend."

He can see innocence in Michael's eyes, and he loathes being the one who has to rip that away from him.

**Experiment****al**

It's too much. Too much grinding and heat, too much lip and tongue, too much teeth and moistness. It's so overwhelming that Lincoln can barely breathe, let alone move. He's sprawled out on the couch. Michael is sprawled out on him kissing him just like he does everything else, focused and concentrated and methodical. Totally dedicated to the task at hand. He compensates for his lack of experience with so much enthusiasm, Lincoln wants to smile. He would be smiling, if the relentless thrusts of tongue and movements of lips didn't prevent him from doing so – and well... if he wasn't almost choking on saliva.

He grabs Michael by the shoulders and rolls both of them over until he's looming above his brother and lightly pushing him into the cushions. Michael's head lolls back with abandon and he asks in a murmur "Please..." with closed eyes, parted lips and breathless voice.

Lincoln brushes a kiss on Michael's chin, his upper lip, his mouth, feather-like and delicate, and watches him grow restless, his eyelids flutter. He looks like a study in surrender and – almost – innocent desire that Lincoln goes from amusement and teasing to need and want in a heartbeat. He presses their mouths together, harder and more insistent, and basks in the satisfaction of a job well done when Michael moans low in his throat. Lincoln nibbles at his lips, sneaks his way past them. Michael just lets himself be kissed and follows Lincoln's lead. The softness and slickness of his mouth are intoxicating and feel like victory to Lincoln.

Until he realizes that he's right where his brother wants him to be, and that the victory is Michael's.

**Resentful**

He wouldn't call that a kiss, although there are lips involved: biting would probably be a better word to describe what Michael is doing to him. He's lying, a bit hazy, in the middle of his unmade bed, and each bite vaguely makes him jump, due to either surprise or pleasure, or maybe a mixture of both. Whatever. Right now, he really can't tell the difference and he won't bother to try. Michael straddles him, restrains him and bends forwards, close enough for Lincoln to smell his mint scented breath. He bites Lincoln's earlobe – the sharp jolt of pain stings the corners of Lincoln's shut eyes – he bites Lincoln's lips even harder, worrying them almost viciously, then sinks his teeth into the flesh of Lincoln's throat. He tugs on the skin, sucks on it and twists it. It's only pain now but Lincoln lets it happens. He lets Michael open his shirt and kiss – bite – his way down, nails digging and scratching in the trail of his mouth. He lets Michael do anything he wants to; he humors him, even though he will admit that, when he slightly arches upwards under Michael's ministrations, one could wonder who's humoring who. He tries to ignore the fact that the kiss is not really a kiss and that the words Michael is whispering are full of anger. He tries to remember that the biting is his punishment for getting high and that he can't enjoy it.

He doesn't stop him until Michael reaches his navel and stabs it with an aggressive tongue. Only then does he put a heavy hand on the nape of his brother's neck and urges his face up.

"I'm not that wasted, Michael," he chastises.

"I wouldn't..." He barely grazes the tip of his fingers on Lincoln's belt.

"I know," Lincoln acknowledges. Michael would never take advantage of the situation like that. Whether this is because you just don't do such things or because he longs for total capitulation, Lincoln can't tell. Whatever the reason, Michael shimmies up, lies flat against him, and Lincoln repeats "I know."

Michael doesn't try to kiss him; he just stays put, nose to nose with him. Lincoln can smell mint toothpaste in his breath, and he knows that from now on, it will make him think of resentment.

**De****sperate**

At eleven twenty-four, Michael starts to shake.

Well, he had started to shake when he entered the room and he has kept it up the entire time they play cards. It's becoming obvious, uncontrollable and really bad, and Lincoln watches him with desperation. He's been wondering when they would get there, and which of them would get there first.

"I'm sorry," Michael tells him.

"Don't sweat it."

They both stand and pace up and down the room, keeping their eyes glued to the floor. Then, like in a well-ordered dance, they turn around and face each other. The light is white, fluorescent and awful, casting weird shadows on Michael's face, and Lincoln has to fight hard not to close his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Michael repeats.

"You shouldn't."

Michael's hands close around his head, fingers holding the back of his skull and thumbs stroking his cheekbones. He's still shaking and when he kisses him, their teeth clatter awkwardly. Lincoln's slides a hand under Michael's standard jail issued shirt, splays it on the cold skin. He would almost swear he can feel the ink of the tattoos beneath his fingers. He presses on Michael's back bringing them closer. After that, it's a rough clash of tongues, lips and harshly muttered words.

At some point, the guard in the corridor opens the door, pokes his head inside the room and almost immediately backs away. Lincoln is vaguely aware of his oh so brief presence. The door slams close and there's the thumping sound of someone leaning hard against the wall seeking some support. Lincoln really can't bring himself to give a fuck about what the man saw, thought he saw and how he will tell. It's not like anyone else other than Michael and him could understand.

Michael's lips soften on his and almost regain their usual skillfulness. He tastes like devotion, held-back tears and perfection, and Lincoln wonders what the hell he may have done to deserve that.

**Promising**

They're sitting at the far end of the pier, under the warm sun and soft breeze, chatting and smiling. It's a wonderful respite from the running and the tension of the few previous hours – not to mention the few previous weeks or even months – from the dark and the ever present walls and fences. Lincoln could stay here for days, but when Michael says that they should get going, he stands swiftly and holds out his hand to help him up. He tugs just a bit too forcefully and Michael crashes into him. Touching his thumb to his brother's chin, he coaxes him to look up. When he does, he brushes their mouths together. It's just a caress, barely a kiss, as chaste as the one Michael gave him years ago.

"Linc?"

The light puff of air that goes with the question tingles his lips and makes him want so much more. Next thing he knows, he's cupping Michael's head, tilting his face and kissing him thoroughly, sloppy and demanding, and Michael is reciprocating with equal delectation. Or at least until he manages to break apart for a well deserved intake of air and mumbles, "Linc, they... Sucre and Abruzzi..."

"Fuck 'em."

The chuckle that escapes from Michael's lips ends in Lincoln's mouth. It's a ragged and surprised, delighted sound that plays like a melody for things to come.

-END-


End file.
